


Sunlight On My Wings

by deathvalleyusa



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Gen, Ignoring the End of S3, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions, Sibling Bonding, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-10-05 21:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathvalleyusa/pseuds/deathvalleyusa
Summary: Billy survived. That's all he's been doing in the years since the summer of 1985: surviving.The summer of 1987 seems as good a time as any to start trying to thrive.





	1. Chapter 1

_ "Your life is a gift. Get the most out of it." _

Every fucking morning Dr. Owens' voice rattled in his head, a reminder to feed himself, to stop mulling over a potential death plan that he'd never go through with, to just get the hell out of bed and  _ do _ something.

1987 was the first year he had felt fully functional since the summer of 1985. Billy had been in a coma for six weeks after the incident at Starcourt, clinging to life as his body and whatever medical science the government had cooked up desperately tried to heal him. He dreamed a lot of El those weeks he was gone. Maybe she was visiting him in that dark place he'd first seen her, keeping him company from afar.

1986 was spent in and out of physical therapy, gaining back control over the weakened body that housed him. Building up his strength, only to watch it break again when he pushed himself by working out. He spent a lot of that summer at the pool, trying desperately to feel  _ normal _ as he swam feverish laps. Mrs. Wheeler had tried to talk to him, her tone far more maternal than their previous interactions, checking up on him and how he was healing. He did his best to avoid her. The memory of the intrusive thought, him slamming her head against the shelves, only brought about panic.

At least he wasn’t drowning in medical debt. His dad had made sure of that, the only protective and fatherly thing he’d done for Billy in his conscious life. Susan had smothered him the moment he came back home, as if she could heal the trauma by heaping more love on him than she’d done in the nine years he’d known her.

Max was different. She didn’t impose. But she didn’t keep her distance either. She’d explained, to the best of her ability, what the hell had happened, what that  _ thing _ that had controlled him was. That she’d known the entire time he was still in there somewhere, even when he had hurt her. That he wasn’t a monster, just another unfortunate victim that the Upside Down had claimed.

The pity for him from everyone involved made him want to vomit. 

So when 1987 rolled around, he was thankful for the new beginning to the year, even though he knew nothing really would change besides the calendar. Billy had set aside some of the money from a government settlement—  _ thanks, Dad  _ —and finally moved the hell out of Hawkins. The Camaro, his baby, had been too trashed to salvage. He’d taken her to a scrap yard and gotten a few bucks. He was almost relieved to see her go, the hell that he’d endured in her finally behind him. 

A few days later, Billy had a new ride.  A little red compact piece of crap, a transitional ride until he could afford another Camaro. He had started calling it Christine, after the Stephen King story, because in his own words: “It’s just as much a death trap as a haunted Plymouth.” 

Max hated that joke, at least to his face. He knew the horror nerd secretly loved that he’d started reading King’s stories that she’d left in the hospital for him. 

“At least it’s not that shitty van you wanted to get,” Max shrugged. “You’d look like a total creep.”

Indianapolis wasn’t totally horrible. It wasn’t San Diego, his ultimate goal, but it was far enough away from Hawkins and his father and the goddamn  _ pity _ from everyone to feel some form of comfort. And it was close enough to Max to keep a watchful eye over her.

The redhead would sometimes make the trip to stay with him on weekends. He wasn’t quite sure if it was to get away from Neil (which he was more than willing to be the respite for) or because she felt obligated to keep an eye on him after that cruel summer. Either way, it was surprisingly nice having her around, now that she was no longer a snot-nosed kid who made it her life’s work to bug the shit out of him. He’d let her drone on about school, about her friends, about her still on-and-off relationship with Sinclair. She’d ask him about his life and he would shrug.

“Nothing new.” And that was the truth. He worked. Sometimes he’d go to a movie alone or see a band with whatever girl he was seeing. Other times he’d tinker with Christine, trying to get a few more years out of the junker. Billy was bored out of his fucking mind, but he supposed it came with the territory of the lonely adulthood he’d built for himself.

_ Your life is a gift. Get the most out of it. _

He was trying. That’s why he was here, waiting at the bus station for Max, hoping to ride the sudden need to get out in the world once she arrived. 

The bus creaked to a stop, the door folding open as people filtered out. It was always a mixture of tired and excited faces, parents with young ones slung across their shoulders and older folks with too much time and money ready to spend a day on the town. In the end, among them was always a redhead with curls weighed down by the length of her hair, backpack slung over her shoulder and skateboard tucked under her arm.

Like always, he waved and she gave a big grin, slipping past the crowd to meet him.

"Hey," he said, baby blues meeting her own.

"Hey," she answered, hugging him with her free arm. "You look terrible."

"Yeah, so do you." He returned the hug, messing up the back of her hair. "Let’s get the hell out of here. I feel like I’m gonna get a disease just  _ looking _ at all these people.”

Once they had made it back to the safety—  _ if you could call it that  _ —of Christine, Billy lit a cigarette. Max wrinkled her nose, not at the smell, but at the fact that he had lit up at all.

“I thought you were gonna quit,” she chastised, cranking her window down a bit farther.

“Yeah, I thought so too,” he sighed as smoke escaped his nose and lips, twirling the stick between his fingers. “Not as easy as it looks.”

“Did you at least try to cut down like Dr. Owens said?”

“Tried is the key word.” His tongue explored the ridges of his teeth before he turned on the car. “So, what do you wanna do? I’ve got some extra money this week so we can actually do something besides go to the mall or rent movies.”

“We should try the gondola rides,” Max grinned.

“Shit,” he said under his breath. “You really won’t let that go, huh?”

“You said you’d take me once it was warm, and I made Mom give me extra money so you couldn’t say no this time.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” He put the car in gear, pulling out of the parking spot before heading down the main drag. “Gondolas. If it’s stupid or boring, that’s on  _ you _ and I better not hear you complain.”

To her credit, the gondola ride was actually pretty fun. Their gondolier actually had, by Max’s request, taught them one of the songs in Italian and forced them to sing along on the last leg of their trip. He hadn’t seen Indy in this capacity before, the greenery and lazy strolls of residents along the canal a foreign sight. The slight grunge of his side of town was more his speed. Max had paid for her own ticket, despite his insistence that he could cover both of them.

She had requested pizza afterwards. Billy took her to their usual spot, Sal’s, home of the biggest, greasiest slices for fifty cents and a modest selection of arcade cabinets. If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure Max was really into the arcade scene anymore now, but she never complained about a chance to proudly type in  _ MADMAX _ as she hit another high score on the graffitied machines. 

Things were constantly changing around him, and he wasn’t quite sure what had stayed the same and what parts of the people he knew were gone. His only constant was the knowledge that parts of him had been ripped away, and he would never get them back.

Max plopped down in the seat across from him, folding the floppy slice of pizza as she took a bite. “So.”

“So,” he said back, taking a swig of his soda. The owner was one of his coworker’s uncles, and gladly gave him access to beer when he wanted despite only being twenty. He wasn’t in the mood to get bitched at by Max for driving after a singular beer in his system, though. 

“Anything new? Did you finally get that leak fixed in your bathroom?”

“Yeah, the landlord left a huge hole in my wall though. Had to patch it myself.” He paused, eyes trained on the grease spot on the paper plate before him. “I, uh, almost have enough saved to move back home now. The bonus I got helped a lot.”

Max set down her pizza, eyes squinting slightly as she caught his gaze. “I thought you said you were gonna stay until I graduated.”

“I thought that was the plan too,” he said gruffly, taking a bite of his own slice. “Plans change, Max. I gotta get out of here.”

“I wanna come with.”

“Susan and Neil would kill me.”

“Then wait until school’s out,” she pleaded. “I can drive with you, you know I have my license now—” 

“Max,” he said firmly, almost forcefully. “No. You’re staying here.”

“Billy,” the redhead said back, eyes whipping with fire despite the calm blue color. “Let. Me. Come. With.”

He leaned back in his chair, the metal squeaking against linoleum. The whole point of him driving back west was to make everything simpler, to only take with him what truly mattered and not have to deal with schedules or moving trucks. Max would just complicate things, even if there was a nagging part of him that wanted her to be there when he saw the ocean again. 

_ Fuck. _ The face she was making meant it she wasn’t going to let this go until he either left without her or figured out how to drag her with. Packing her in the car with all his other crap he cared way too much about might have to be something he compromised on. 

“Just drop it, shitbird.” With a sigh, he added, “We’ll talk about later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably going to be shorter chapters and slower updates than my other fic. i just wanted to completely ignore the ending and let billy have some PEACE.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy goes home.

She had won. 

The constant badgering had worn him down, and by the looks of it, had done the same to Susan and Neil. He wasn’t the most trustworthy person to entrust a sixteen year old with —  _ god knows, if Neil ever found out Max had her first sampling of weed from him Billy would be actually dead  _ — but Max had a good head on her shoulders. She would keep him in line more than he would for her. 

His apartment slowly became a mountain range of boxes and trash bags, his non-working hours spent slowly going through each piece of paper and trinket he’d collected. Some of it was going to donations, others Max had requested for her own sentimentality. It was a fucking mess, but nothing about Billy Hargrove was ever anything other than a mess. The chaos suited him fine.

It wasn’t until he headed back to Hawkins one day to pick up a few small boxes of things he’d forgotten at the house on Old Cherry that it hit him. He was finally leaving everything behind, just like he had dreamed for three long years. Every last pothole in the road, every girl he’d used to pass the time with, all the rows of trees that aggravated his allergies. He was going home.

Susan had continued her smothering the moment he walked into the house. Commenting how thin he looked, trying to pack away Tupperware full of leftovers so he could feed himself without putting as much effort into anything. It gave him some sense of irritation, but not-so-deep down he felt grateful for the attention. When she finally sat down long enough to actually talk, it was evident she was barely holding it together.

“You don’t have to worry about getting Max home,” she said, rifling through her purse. “I already paid for her flight home. Just make sure she actually gets on the plane. If she has the chance, she’ll try to stay.”

“She promised she’d come back,” Billy answered, setting his glass of water down on the kitchen table. “You know her. She keeps her promises.”

“I know. I just worry.”

“Susan, it’s fine.” He paused. “Thanks for letting her come with me in the first place.”

Billy was certain she would cry from the first genuine thank you he had given her.

It was strange, loading his life into the trunk and back seat of his car. Stranger still was loading his sister into the passenger seat after the tearful hugs and promises to call every truck stop they could manage. 

Billy had remembered the painful trip to Hawkins, watching every familiar part of his life stripped away as he drove. It felt like life was now going in reverse, the corn fields and open plains turning to mountains and desert as they travelled. He let Max take the long stretches of road before them, too nervous to let her drive in unfamiliar traffic when they stopped in the cities. Even as she drove to allow him to sleep, he couldn’t seem to find unconsciousness without talking to her first, letting her in on his plan.

“First thing I’m doing is jumping in the fucking ocean,” he stated one time, after buckling in with his variety of junk food from the gas station. “Clothes on and all.”

“I’m gonna get some Del Taco,” Max said back, rustling open a pack of pretzels before shifting the car into gear. “I’m gonna eat my weight in tacos there and then lay on the beach till I burn.”

“Shit, I forgot how much I missed Del Taco,” Billy laughed, tying up his hair into a small ponytail at the base of his neck. The air conditioning in his car worked as hard as it could, but his body was a boiler room. He’d abandoned any shirt with sleeves for the journey a day ago.

“Mom said we should hit up Aunt Patty too. She might have furniture for you.”

“Aunt Patty is a hoarder, I don’t want her nasty furniture.”

“Like the crap you’d get off the side of the road is any better?” Max teased, taking a sip of her soda. “She’s pretty liberal with the money gifts too. We could probably get a hundred bucks each out of her if we talk sweet enough.”

“A hundred bucks does sound good,” he mused, shoving a few chips in his mouth. “Fine, we’ll go, but I’m not taking any of the crap from the basement.”

Max only laughed, pulling onto the highway again. 

Billy kept his word.

Finding parking on the beach during the summer was a nuisance, but as soon as he had parked the car, he shot out onto the sand. His legs carried him full speed ahead, right into the arms of his constant love and comfort. The saltwater licked at his face, burning in his nose for the first time since 1984, masking his own brimming tears from any onlookers as he let his body float for a few minutes in the waves. He melted into the water, finally at peace.

Max had been less fervent in her quest to get into the ocean, leaving behind a pile of clothes and a small cooler they had acquired along the way for drinks. When she finally joined him, impulse took over. Billy swept the shorter girl in his arms, ignoring her shrieking as he threw her into the deep. A moment later she surfaced, swimming his direction as he tried to avoid her wrath.

Ginger hair hung in her face in long strands as she gasped for air, splashing great waves at him as he cackled. There was no reprieve from her attack, small hands grabbing at his shoulders as she dunked him under in retaliation. 

At that moment, they were children again, the tumultuous constant of their relationship calmed into playful teasing. They were brother and sister, Max and Billy, two kids just trying to find light within the dark confusion of their home life.

The ocean held them until their bodies pruned, until muscles started to give out and cramp. Billy reluctantly made his way back to their pile of things, shaking out his mess of curls. 

“We should get your keys,” Max said, coming up behind him as she wrung out her hair. The California sun already made her seem more alive, more vibrant than Hawkins had ever done. “And check in at the motel. Mom’s gonna have a cow if we don’t call her soon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, wiping any stray drops of water from his face. “I need to see a man about a bed anyway.”

Billy wouldn’t admit it, but Max had been a needed hand during this transition. For the most part, he had his shit together, but every so often she’d be there to remind him to buy things he hadn’t remembered. Grab bandages, get new toothpaste, buy salt and pepper. 

She had been right about Aunt Patty as well. The side tables and sofa set he’d hauled from their aunt’s home were in relatively good condition and didn’t smell overwhelmingly of old people. They’d both gotten fifty dollars in exchange for a hug and a kiss. Max had used part of hers to take a train up to LA to visit her dad for a night. He had thrown his into bills and some new clothes.

When the day came for her departure, he couldn’t ignore the way his heart dropped into his stomach. He’d grown used to her constant presence again, as annoying as it could sometimes be, and the thought that tomorrow he’d go to the beach and not see the waves reflect in the blue of her eyes made him want to vomit.

At breakfast, a feast at the closest Denny’s, they had both been relatively quiet. It was an uncomfortable silence, but he thanked whatever god that existed that it wasn’t clouded by the energy they had grown so used to over the years. Billy could tell by the way she gripped her fork, the tentative sips at her coffee that was more sugar and cream than actual coffee, that she was holding back the plea to stay. 

And when they finally were at the airport, waiting for her plane to land, it all came undone.

“I don’t want to go back,” Max said, gripping the strap of her duffle bag so tightly that her knuckles turned pure white. “If I go back, I’m gonna be alone and I don’t want to be alone.”

The words broke his fucking heart. His eyebrows knotted together, swallowing hard before looking at the redhead’s face. He’d seen it a thousand times before, her holding back a torrential downpour of tears so valiantly that her features screwed into anger. He’d been the cause of that face so many times, and it had never tore at him until now. Every time he had caused it, it was because he  _ wanted _ to make her feel this low, to make her feel how fucking awful he always did. This wasn’t something he wanted. 

“You’re not gonna be alone, Max,” he said, his voice betraying the cool he was trying to keep. “You’ve got your friends, and your mom. And you have my number, you can call me whenever the fuck you want. And…”

“And what?”

He blew a strand of hair out of his face. “And you can visit when you want. I might actually miss the constant nagging, and someone needs to keep me in check.”

That managed to get a small chuckle out her, even if it was laced with the beginnings of a sob. 

_ ‘Now boarding for Flight 537, San Diego to Indianapolis.’ _

His heart turned to cement in his chest, dropping back down to his stomach. “Quit crying, that’s you, Max.”

She didn’t move. With a sigh, he nudged her, standing up with a grunt. The redhead stayed in her seat a few seconds more, standing slowly before looking at him. Her eyes were bloodshot now, screaming to let go of the tears.

“Seriously, stop crying,” he said gruffly, feeling his own tears starting to prick at his eyes. “Or wait till you’re on the plane. You know I hate that crap.”

“I’m gonna visit,” she said finally, her voice breaking as she wrapped her arms around his torso. He tentatively gave her a hug back, only gripping harder after she spoke again. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

It was hard, letting go after pushing her away for so long. He hated how much he missed her already, hated that he knew he left one of her hairbands on his sink. Hated that her choice for a friendly plant on his table would be a constant reminder of her. Max was always going to be there, and he hated knowing that it took this long to figure that out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy finds his purpose.

He was alone, but he wasn’t. 

The guys at the garage were nice enough, good to have a few beers with while they bitched about their wives and girlfriends or played darts. Billy hadn’t bothered to contact the friends he’d had before the move to Hawkins. They would expect him to be the same person, someone unscarred by trauma and death. 

When he was alone in his dinky apartment, surrounded by clutter and secondhand furniture, he would think. Debate with himself over finding the one person he’d truly wanted to see since returning, pouring over the risks and the potential heartbreak. 

The fall of ‘87, Billy had finally started to search for his mother.

It was difficult, especially without any leads to where she had gone after the divorce. It felt like she had wanted to become untraceable. He’d poured over marriage records and birth certificates, hoping something, _ someone, _would turn up that he recognized. Travis, one of the guys from the garage, offered to ask his wife who worked with state records to help. Billy had almost hugged the life out of him.

He’d been making dinner when the phone rang. An annoyance, but with how few people actually contacted him, he knew he had to answer.

“Hi, is this Bill?”

“The one and only,” he answered, his voice monotone. 

“Hi, honey, it’s Debbie. Travis’ wife?” 

“Oh, hey.” He readjusted the phone in the crook of his neck. “What’s up, Debbie?”

“I found something I think you’re going to like,” came the tinny voice, bursting with excitement. “I did another look at the details you gave me, and I think I found your mother’s new marriage certificate. Well, not new, it’s a few years old, but all the information matched up and I think it’s her.”

“No shit,” he finally said after a few moments. His heart was pounding away hard enough to burst through the scar tissue around his chest.

“Got a pen, honey? I’ve got her name and address right here.”

“Um, yeah, give me a sec.” Billy set down the hand towel he’d been gripping till his knuckles turned white. Rustling through a junk drawer, he finally found a working pen and an old envelope. “Ready when you are.”

* * *

_ DOROTHY PECK. _

_ 3405 PARSLEY LANE, BAKERSFIELD. _

For what seemed like ages, he stared at his blocky handwriting scribbled on the envelope. There was no fucking way this was real, that his mother was within his grasp again after all these years. 

_ Dottie_. He’d remembered his aunt calling her that at family functions. The way her nickname rolled off the tongue, usually punctuated by laughter. He tried the syllables in his mouth, hoping for the same nostalgic sound. It only sounded hollow, too much like his father to be comforting.

There was no right way to go about this, he realized. No template for contacting your long-lost mother who had a whole other life after abandoning her past one. Definitely no how-to book on what to say, how to _ feel _. 

Billy knew for certain he didn't have the nerve to turn up out of the blue. The last thing he wanted was to show up, ten years older, tired and scarred. Her rejection had always been his biggest fear, bigger than never finding her again.

He stared at the envelope a few moments longer. A sigh blew out his nostrils, hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The sound of the timer on his counter rang free in the silence. Billy grumbled to himself, the squeak of his chair against linoleum joining the timer for a few moments. Maybe with a full stomach and a good sleep, he could figure out his plan of attack.

It turned out, he didn’t eat much, nor did he sleep well enough to feel fully confident in his decision. But he had made a decision, and that was what mattered. He’d write a letter. It was easiest.

As he sat with an unlit cigarette pressed between his lips, Billy realized he was at a loss for words again. He’d planned it so beautifully while laying in bed this morning and again in the shower, but now sitting here, everything he had thought of was just… gone. 

Hands ran through his hair, a sharp exhale blowing through his nose.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, finally lighting the cigarette. He wondered if his mom smoked. How she’d feel about him smoking. His eyebrows furrowed. _ Focus, you idiot. _

He took a drag, letting out a stream of smoke before setting the cigarette in an amber glass ashtray. There was one more hesitation, one more wave of doubt, before he leaned forward, scribbling out what he hoped to be an intelligible message to one Mrs. Dorothy Peck.

* * *

Billy’s anxiety was in overdrive. He hated even _ admitting _ that it was anxiety, but he was trying this thing now where he would be honest with himself about his responses to things. Dr. Owens would be proud. So would the asshole at the hospital who had been assigned to pick his brain and help him stop screaming so damn much in the middle of the night. It was debatable if the honesty was working. Burying it deep down had at least allowed him to function better.

In his anxiety, he bought a secondhand guitar and a new surfboard. 

One frustrated him to no end, a learning experience that produced dissonant chords and badly plucked riffs. The other gave him some sense of peace, even if he was incredibly rusty. He bounced back and forth between hours at the beach and trying to replicate a Metallica song before his neighbors banged on the wall and told him to shut up. 

He’d never thrown himself so headfirst into work before, either. The amount of overtime at the garage was starting to physically catch up with him, his body screaming at him to slow down. To just _ stop _ for a few days to recuperate, to ride out the waves of pain that had come. It was a reminder; no matter how much he had recuperated, there was always going to be a reminder of what had happened. Scars, residual pain, nightmares. 

A week passed, then another. His fingers stung from plucking too hard at the steel guitar strings. Another week passed through him like a ghost. His tan was deeper and richer from the time on his board. He’d catch himself in the mirror and think how pale and hollow he felt in comparison to his outward physique. 

One day, he came home, covered in sweat and smudges of oil. Body begging to just be thrown into bed after a healthy few rips from his bong. Anything to mellow out how much he ached in so many ways. 

As he set down his keys and mail —_ only bills and flyers, per usual _ — onto the small patch of counter that wasn’t scattered with crap, he noticed his answering machine blinking. Probably Max or Aunt Patty. He’d accidentally missed his weekly phone call with Max yesterday, which meant he would be in a lot of shit when he finally called her up. With a frown, he huffed and started stripping off his work clothes. He’d deal with it after he washed the grime off him.

The hot water over his shoulders and back was a needed relief, even if the water pressure in his place was subpar. A few ibuprofen and a few hits of his dwindling stash later, he felt better. Loose. Able to maybe throw together dinner and handle a conversation with Max.

He pushed sandy curls from his face, looking down at the answering machine once again. With a click of his tongue, he pushed the button.

_“Billy? Hey. You were supposed to call me yesterday, jerk. Mom’s gonna have a cow because I called and you didn’t answer, which I’m guessing is because you got too stoned again to answer your stupid ph—”_

_ BEEP. _ He skipped to the next message. He'd deal with Max later.

_“H-Hi, Billy?”_

His heart dropped into his stomach. It took all he could not to drop the loaf of bread and deli meat in his hands to the floor.

_“I’m just calling to let you know I got your letter. I’m so glad to hear from you, honey.”_

Her voice was like heaven, but far more tired than he remembered. Almost tearful and so, _so_ nervous. His heart was thudding back up in his chest, rising up and up through to his ears. 

_“There’s so much to talk about. I don’t know where to start and leaving it on an answering machine isn’t very fair to you, is it?” Her laugh was nervous and light. “I’d love for you to call, honey. Any time after six is best, or any time on the weekends is fine.”_

He almost didn’t register her rattling off her phone number. He was encased in amber, unable to move or do much of anything besides live in this experience. The machine let out a long beep, but he still couldn’t move. It was still processing; her voice, her mannerisms, everything he had kept close to his heart was there and _ alive_. So alive and free like he had never experienced her before.

At last, his body responded. The food in his hands slapped down onto the counter, his junk drawer opening so hard it nearly came off the track. Before long, he had paper and a pen. For a second, Billy hesitated, staring at the clunky machine, no longer glowing with a little red dot.

With a deep breath, he pressed the play button, skipping through Max’s message. The moment his mom’s voice began it’s introduction, his name wrapped in her sweet tone, he felt his chest collapse. Every last bit of frustration and anxiety left in an instant.

When the feeling passed, he pressed the pen to paper, writing down her phone number in his best penmanship. He couldn't afford to lose a chance to hear her again.


End file.
